Haven: Angles of Kipple Demons of Dust By P. B. Yeary

            I went out into the yard.  The city was Dangerous.  That is what The Small Ones called it.  It was full of ash, and kipple, and acid.  The air was poisonous and turned minds to muddle.  The clouds glowed and the rain stained the stones yellow and the metal orange.  Nothing that happened here, in Haven or on the streets would matter for much longer.  

Photo by Alexander Zvir

I sat beneath a bent old tree.  It’s softened trunk leaned just enough to block the ever glow of the horizon.  I sat there studying the stones, the unchanging, unmoving rocks. No matter how they were tossed they didn’t care.  

I spread my wings just to remember that I had them.  I studied by feathers, black as the void.   I considered just flying away.  I could leave this misery for the quiet gray stillness of home.  The problems of the small ones were not mine.   I stood up.  Climbed up the tree, sinking my claws into the plum soft trunk.  I sat among its purpling leaves, allowing the warm wind currents to lick my wings.    The poisonous air had no affect on me. I didn’t feel the toxins burn.   I could fly away.  

But the name still held me like a rope of gold attached to the hearts of the small ones.  Could I leave them in this place of dust, and agony?   I couldn’t save them without loosing myself.  

Photo by Ekaterina Astakhova from Pexels

The air here would kill them soon.  Their lives were so fleeting.  Before they could grow they would add to the dust of their world.  And I would go on as I am, or as I will be, unaffected by the atmosphere.   Unable to ever return to the In-Between.

I resolved to return to my mission to observe without judgment.  My indifference restored I folded my wings back beneath my leather skin.  I tried not to think about the stone gray eyes of Chisel and I tried to forget his sacrifices, and his charm, and his warmth.  Self-hatred is a step towards the chaotic.     

I climbed back in through the same glass wall Chisel had opened to me.  At once rage energy assaulted me.  Mr. Millridge had found Chisel’s art.  He’d taken a hammer to all of it.   The brick walls were scarred by dents and slashed, wild swipes of metal against stone.  The names of the small ones, the faces of the friends that had died, lay as red-brown dust on the floor.  Chisel had discovered this just before my arrival.  His anger filled him with fire.  The room was so filled with emotion that I could not maintain balance in their presence.  So I fled.  

I spread my wings and embraced the air.  I flew towards the ever glow of the horizon. I could feel myself getting closer to home.  Soon I would be able to leap away from this plain.   Away from feeling and emotion.   I was nearly at the rip, nearly beyond the reach of my tangible form when I realized some part of me was draining away.  I hesitated.  I realized that this ability meant that the tether on my leg had weakened.  I realized that the source of my connection on this plain was fading.  Possibly, it was dying.   And I didn’t want it to.  

I turned around gripped by this something I had no name for, something stronger than fear, more powerful than curiosity.     As I drew closer to Haven all the other energies attacked me.  They joined

Photo by Alexandr Nikulin from Pexels

forces with the emotion drawing me in, causing the ache in my guts to pulsate and burn.   When I landed, back among the small ones, I hadn’t even bothered to put my wings away.   I accepted the gasps and awe of the small ones. It had been hours since I’d left.  The small ones had had time to get hungry again.   But I did not see Millridge.  More importantly, I did not see Chisel. 

The others told me that Millridge had returned with his gang of men before Chisel could go after him.  The other small ones had cowered in fear.  Chisel’s gang had abandoned him.  I had abandoned him.  Chisel had been taken away and they did not know where.    Many of them looked to me to help them now that Chisel was gone.   But they all had seen how I had fled.  Their eyes pleaded with me to do something but their faith in me had gone.  Even now that they saw my wings they didn’t know if I come back to help them or even if I could.  They could no longer sway me with their feelings.  They had no power over me without Chisel in their number.  

It was on me alone to choose my destiny.  

  There is a thin line between being angelic and demonic for a being from The In Between.  It all comes down to choices.  To forgive, or to kill.  To forget, or to avenge.  To stay and guard the weak many, or to seek out the one who’d protected me.  I looked down at my hands.   Skin brown like leather, with blood red like rust and nails as black and sharp as a raven’s talons.   And I chose. 

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Photo by Suzy Hazelwood

 By P. B. Yeary

Published by Thrice Fiction Magazine Approx. 1, 900 words

April 2017. Issue No. 19

Originally published under the moniker C. J. Silver

Approximately 1000 words.